


Batman, Bunbury, and the Burning of Sweaters

by orphan_account



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:50:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Racetrack has arguably horrible taste in clothing, and David makes the ghost of Oscar Wilde very proud by Bunburying in order to go be wildly homosexual</p>
            </blockquote>





	Batman, Bunbury, and the Burning of Sweaters

According to the calendar, the first day of autumn is always marked by the September equinox. But for everyone else, autumn has not officially begun until Racetrack has unearthed The Sweater.

It had started out as one of those thrift store finds too good to pass up. Jack had laughed (“Dude, that thing is longer than you are!”), and Dave had christened it his “hipster snuggie”. According to Spot, the thing was a knitted monstrosity beyond redemption. But after a few years, it had become as much a part of their group as Jack’s red Converse or Spot’s baseball bat.

The first day of sweater season was always spent in Race’s basement, and this year was no different. As Race lifted his head from the couch to scan the scene, he thought to himself that it almost looked like a painting. Maybe not the kind that hangs in museums, but the kind hanging by the bathroom door of a restaurant, maybe. One of those restaurants that wants to feel just a little bit nicer than it actually is.

Bumlets, Itey, Mush, and Blink were tangled all over each other on the small couch by the television, kicking off the season with their favorite selection of cheesy Halloween movies. Every year the same argument broke out as to whether Clue could be classified as a seasonal film, but the results tended to vary (This year they’d decided no, it was not, and then moved on to Beetlejuice).

Snoddy, Skittery, and Swifty were crowded around the computer, looking through websites for haunted houses (“Can we try not to freak out the employees this year, guys? It’s _their_ job to scare _us_ you know—” “But where’s the fun in that?!”).

In the corner by the bar, David and Crutchy played Egyptian Ratscrew, only to be interrupted every few seconds while David checked his phone or glanced toward the stairs.

“Hey, mom!” Racetrack called over the din, and although David didn’t exactly acknowledge that he’d heard, Race saw him scrunch up his nose. “Momm!!” He tried again. “What happened to dad?!”

“Didn’t he text you?” Blink interjected, speaking loudly over the TV. “Jack’s sick. He’s not coming.”

Everyone pretended not to notice David’s shoulders slump.

“Bet he wouldn’t have gotten sick if he had a sweater like mine, huh Spot?” Race taunted.

“Cold weather doesn’t make you sick, that’s just an old wives’ tale,” Spot drawled. “That sweater, however, is making me sick just by looking at it. I say we burn it.”

“If you don’t like it, don’t look at it, Princess.” Race fired back.

David stood abruptly. “I have to go,” he announced, reaching for his jacket.

“Aw, Dave, where ya goin’?” Skittery protested.

“I, ah, I have to go and … Well, my parents aren’t going to be home until late and, ah, and Sarah just texted me saying she made plans for the night and somebody needs to feed the cat, so…”

“Oh I didn’t know you had a cat!” Mush interrupted. “What’s his name?”

“Uh, Bunbury.” David said distractedly as he finished buttoning up his coat.

Race barely managed to keep his laughter in until David had made it all the way up the stairs.

“Bunbury?” He exclaimed delightedly. “Little fucker, did he really think nobody would catch that?!”

“Catch what?” Spot asked, flopping down next to Race on the couch.

“Bunbury,”

Spot scowled. “Yes, but what _about_ it? Why’s it so funny to you?”

“It’s funny,” Race said, trying his best to drag it out because he knew how much it bugged Spot to be out of the loop about anything, “because he’s obviously running off to play nurse for our dear Mr. Kelly.”

“Well obviously,” Spot said, rolling his eyes, “But what’s all that got to do with a cat called Bunbury?”

“ _I have invented an invaluable permanent invalid called Bunbury, in order that I may be able to go down into the country whenever I choose._ ”

“What?”

“The Importance of Being Earnest!” Race exclaimed.

Spot narrowed his eyes. “Still not following,”

“The play? Oscar Wilde? … Still nothing? Okay, so this guy Algernon had this made-up friend, Bunbury, who he said was really sick all the time, and then whenever he needed an excuse to get out of something he’d just say that he needed to go visit him.”

“We are all going to get arrested someday,” Spot said slowly. “We’ll all go to jail and it’s gonna be all his fault because he can’t fuckin’ tell a lie without making a goddamned _literary reference_ just to clarify that ‘Hey, if the dumbass shaky voice and weird nervous habits haven’t tipped you off already, yes, I am in fact lying.’”

“Whatever illegal shenanigans you and Jack are planning, count me out.” Race said, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve.

“Well naturally. Someone’s gonna have to bail us out.”

“And lose an entire season of being able to leave my sweater lying around without worrying that a certain someone’s gonna take it and light it on fire? Why would I want to do that?”

“You’d miss me,” Spot said, sounding just a little too certain for Race’s liking.

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that,” he replied, hoping to God that Spot couldn’t see through him as easily as they’d all seen through David.

~~~

Race woke himself promptly at 3:20 a.m. by falling off the couch.

“Mother of _fuck_ ,” he groaned, rubbing his head.

The lights were off and most of the group appeared to be asleep, so he hoped fervently that no one had noticed his fall. The television was still on, volume low, but the only one awake and still paying attention was Mush.

“Dude, did someone take The Sweater?” he asked, only just loud enough to be heard.

“You took it off in your sleep like an hour ago and threw it off the couch. I dunno what happened to it after that,” Mush whispered back.

“Well _that’s_ reassuring. Any idea where Spot is?”

“I think he went upstairs.”

“Awesome. How much you wanna bet I’ll go up there and find my sweater in the fireplace?”

“Enough to buy you a new one.” Mush said with a grin.

“You’re on.”

Race did end up finding Spot in the living room, but that was about where all predictability ended.

For one thing, he had glasses on.

 _Glasses_.

The great and legendary Spot Conlon, terror of the East Coast, had screwy vision.

And he was reading, of all things, Batman: Year One.

But most unbelievably of all was the fact that he was wearing The Sweater.

There were a limited number of things a person could say when presented with a situation like the one at hand, so Race ended up going with “Well, looks like I owe Mush seven dollars.”

“I’m going to pretend I know what you’re talking about, nod sympathetically, and continue reading,” Spot said without looking up.

“You’re wearing my sweater,” Race said, eyebrows raised.

“Yup.”

“I thought you hated it…?”

“I was fucking cold, alright?”

“I see,” Race said with a smirk. “You do realize,” he continued, sliding in next to him on the couch, “that you look like the absolute icon of hipster glory right now, don’t you? I mean, glasses, comic book, knitted thrift-shop sweater… And I thought you didn’t even like DC?”

“One: no one likes DC. Not even so-called DC fans like DC. They just like an unfortunate bundle of characters who happen to be copyrighted to the worst bunch of bastards in the world of entertainment. And two: I got bored, and this was all you had on the coffee table. But I still think Spider-man could kick Batman’s ass any day of the week.”

“Jack will break your nose if he hears you talking that way—”

“Jack is currently bed-ridden, which leaves Gotham in the hands of Nightwing, who I’m pretty sure is gonna be out of commission for the next few days because that’s what fucking happens when you hop into bed with someone who’s contagious, so I think that puts his argument out of commission.”

Race laughed. “Jesus, you’re probably right. Damn, so I guess that leaves me in charge of Gotham? This is gonna get interesting. Which hero am I?”

“Iron Man.”

“Whoa, really?”

“Yeah. You’re both short and named Tony and annoying as fuck and think that you’re funnier than you actually are.”

“I’m touched, Spot. Truly I am. … Wait, so who’s Captain America?”

“Crutchy.”

“Holy fuck. That’s … scarily accurate.”

“Yup,” Spot said, the corners of his mouth curving up ever so slightly.

They were quiet for a few moments. Spot went back to reading, and Race remembered the reason he’d come up there in first place.

“Hey, can I have my sweater back?”

“No.”

“But it’s cold downstairs,” he whined.

“So stay here.”

“It’s cold up here too.”

“Well that’s just too damn bad,” he said, and wrapped an arm around Race’s shoulders.


End file.
